The signing happened on a rainy Tuesday. Caleb wore a blue button-down. I wore the only blazer I owned that didn’t make me feel like a substitute teacher. The closing attorney slid papers across the table, and we signed our names until our wrists hurt. When we got the keys, Caleb twirled me in the empty living room while rain tapped against the windows.
“This is ours,” he said.
Ours.
A word I had wanted so badly I forgot to ask whether he meant it the way I did.
The last year had chipped at that belief slowly, which is how something enormous breaks without making a sound at first.
It did not start with lipstick or perfume or a neighbor asleep under my blanket. It started with restlessness.
Caleb started saying his job felt stagnant. He worked in operations for a logistics company in Dublin, good salary, predictable hours, decent benefits. The kind of job he used to call “responsible adult money.” Then he began coming home with complaints that had a new edge. His boss didn’t recognize his vision. His coworkers lacked energy. His life felt repetitive. He needed more. He never quite defined more, and I was too tired from my own shifts to keep asking.
Then came the late nights.